


Your Midnights

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:57:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: It's a snowy night, and two people are having dinner.





	Your Midnights

Outside, the wind is howling, endless and perfectly savage, as if the pub is surrounded by wolves. Inside, it smells of pine and wood-smoke. There are dogs snoring by the fireplace, and garlands hang over the eaves. She feels pleasantly plastered, her edges softened by the tequila shots she'd done with Maril and the promise of a hot goat cheese salad in her immediate future. Sam's ordering now, up by the bar, laughing with the girl pulling pints. A Christmas decoration swings in front of his face and she sees him for a moment as if through a prism of light, splitting him into thousands of Sams, and then rebuilding him.

 

His cuddly sweater. The trousers she quite likes but would never tell him she quite likes. Curls of hair at his nape, that dark lustrous red she'll miss, but would never tell him she'll miss. The sound of his voice, with its low as butter Scots burr. He pulls a few coins out of his pocket, deposits them on the bar. Smiles at the girl, bringing over a bottle of of red that is as deep and unfathomable as an ocean at sunset. He has to pick his way through the crowds, but he does so with a grace she recognizes bone-deep. He's always been like that - always been able to move as if he knows exactly where he'll end up.

 

"They're out of aubergines," he says, alighting at the table and depositing the wine, two sparkling glasses, and finally his bum on a seat. "I said ye wouldn't mind."

 

"So long as they put in--"

 

"Extra cheese," he finishes. "Goat cheese, whatever that crap is. Aye, they said they could. They're a bit backed up in there."

 

"Well, it is New Year after all," Caitriona replies, hefting the bottle in the air and eyeing the label. "You splashed out."

 

"It was the best they had."

 

"I was being serious, Heughan."

 

He smirks at her. "Since when are ye ever serious?"

 

"It's hols and it's wine and I'm deadly serious about both."

 

"Well cheers then."

 

"Clink," she says, lifting the sparkling balloon glass to meet his. "This is well posh."

 

"You're worth it."

 

"Aw, thanks hon."

 

He laughs and looks around. "Are we the last ones standing then?"

 

"Maril left a bit ago, I think," Cait says, craning her neck. "Yep, just the pair of us. You'd think they'd last till midnight at least? For the ball dropping."

 

"Or at least to toast to our final year together?"

 

She wipes away a mock-tear. "Don't make me all weepy now."

 

"Hush, you."

 

Their conversation drifts into that. The honking great big elephant in the room. The end of _Outlander_ , of all they know. Of all they've actually _known_ or dreamt of or stressed over. Ten seasons of playing the same characters, of inhabiting their skin and breathing their breaths, of tasting what they eat, of tramping through brush and being bitten by midges, and conquering the frontier, the wilds. Sam asks her what she'll miss most about Claire ("her bloody tenacity, have you ever known someone so fucking stubborn?") and she asks him the same about Jamie, ("the sword, I think") and they can't help but have a laugh over that, the difference in their responses. 

 

"It's being them, or just -- well, I suppose it's being comfortable," Cait muses, getting even more squiffy on the wine. It's gorgeous and rich, and to her it's like she's drinking every night they've sat like this, across from each other, breaking down the day, breaking it into bits they can digest and learn from. "I'm so bloody comfortable. Even in the pissing rain and with the bugs, y'know? I just _get_ her. What if I never find that again?"

 

"You mean what if you're bollocks at any other gig?"

 

"Yes, exactly."

 

He chucks her chin gently. "How likely is that, though? I mean, really, really in your heart of hearts. Is that something that's going to happen, Balfe?"

 

She feels wobbly. Like her lower lip might be trembling. "I don't know. I know Claire. I understand her. These other people, I don't know them. And what if it's only you I work well with? What if I'm like a doorstop beside someone else?"

 

Sam eyes her. "That would be fine with me."

 

"I'd flick some food at you if I had any."

 

"Of course you'll have it with someone else. You're an actor, Cait. You'll _act_ , aye?"

 

Their dinner arrives, and Caitriona spends a precious few moments just gazing at it in rapture. He'd taken the piss for her choice but even he has to admit it's a beauty; griddled courgettes, bursting cherry tomatoes, blackened cauliflower, grilled bread slathered with garlic and huge hunks of fried goat's cheese. Roasted cherries dot the top, like amethysts, and the dressing is thick and lemony, with ribbons of golden olive oil and hints of honey. She inhales, smelling salt and fire and the crowd around them, boozed up and ready for the turning of the calendar. It's the smell of excitement, of candy floss and new beginnings.

 

Sam looks mutinous. "Why's my cod and chips so sad compared to that bit of greenery you've got?"

 

"Perhaps next time just trust the master of the menu, eh?"

 

As they eat, they talk about a documentary they watched a few nights previously, about Abelard and Héloïse. Well, actually, that _she_ had watched, and Sam had largely mocked or thrown popcorn at. Although, by the end, even he had been curled up on one of the recliners, his feet bare and his eyes wide. Made by the BBC, it had been unflinching in its portrayal of the doomed love affair between two such unlikely, unlucky people. They'd both thought it would be somewhat of a fairytale, but not so. The blood-letting and castration. Secret sex and an illegitimate baby. The forced cloistering. She waves her fork at Sam in emphasis. 

 

"He made her become a bloody _nun._ Can you imagine?"

 

"But they did love each other," he says, shrugging. "I reckon that wasn't anything compared to Abe getting his balls chopped off."

 

"Momentary pain."

 

"Long-term strain."

 

"What does that even mean?"

  
"It means can you imagine trying to wank off without--"

 

"Well compare that to trying to wank off in a nunnery," she says, taking a large drink of wine. "I think you'll find Mother Superior frowns upon such things."

 

"Bit like trying in your trailer, isn't it? Worrying about the wheels bouncing..."

 

Cait giggles. "You'd know all about that."

 

"Not as bad as Cesar. That bloke's going to sprain something."

 

"Disgusting," she says tartly. "He's like a child."

 

"Although I dinna even think he's alone in there? He gets more birds than anyone I've ever met."

 

She ignores him. " _Anyway,_ I think writing letters is a lost art form. We could all learn something from those two. I mean, besides the ball chopping. Those letters they wrote... and how much separated them and tried to come between them? Every step of the way, there were roadblocks and shit from her Uncle and yet, they still managed to have a secret affair, get pregnant and stay in love all those years. I know I thought it would have a touch of the Cinderellas about it, but it was hard-going."

 

"Reminds me of Jamie and Claire."

 

Her tone is sweet. "Perhaps that's the ending we're all waiting for. Jamie and Claire ride off into the sunset and _thwack!_ off come Jamie's testicles. Claire finally has enough of being raped by every man she meets and goes on some sort of mass rampage."

 

"Wouldn't blame her one bit."

 

She raises her glass. "Cheers to _that_. At least Héloïse was a beacon of hope in her own time. As much as I love Beauchamp, she gets put through the wringer."

 

"Not her fault."

 

"Exactly. Couldn't Diana have given her a break? Anyone a break? Why so much... rape?"

 

"You're asking me?" he says mildly. "The one she most fantasizes about seeing ... well, y'know?"

 

"I'll never forget that," Caitriona replies, eyes alight with the memory of that horrendous moment (and her attempts to keep a banal expression), the conventions, the panels and the questions. Trying her best to appear casual, trying to answer with delight and intelligence and humour. Trying, trying, trying. She toasts to him again. "Not her finest hour. But at least we got through it. We got through it all, come to that. And it's almost done."

 

Sam pushes his plate away, tossing his knife and fork over the vinegary chips and remains of battered fish. His forehead crinkles and he looks so boyish that she can't help but feel ever so slightly mushy. It truly is the _end._ No more banter over who runs to get coffee in the morning. No more of his hands seeking out her neck after tense scenes, easing out the knots. No more bitching about the rain or the wind or the storms or the half-rain or the wet drizzle or the wet wool or the heavy skirts, socks, shoes, anything, bloody _everything_. No more itchy wigs and watching Netflix in her trailer or pub lock-ins or grabbing a picnic from craft service and fucking off for an hour. 

 

It had always seemed there would be _more_. 

 

She feels foolish now, and maudlin. She thinks of Héloïse writing to her lover,“let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs with yours I may make your sufferings less.” When she'd heard that on the documentary, she'd had to swallow to keep from sobbing out loud.  Because isn't that love in its purest form? Isn't that companionship? No matter what _kind_ of love, really. They had shared an experience that no one else could ever know. Every day, his concerns were hers, and hers were his. They'd eaten them, drank them, made them their own. Because if he wasn't happy, neither could she be, and vice versa. They felt each other's sorrows and joys with the keenest sense of kinship and an anguished empathy.

 

She often wonders if she would have been that way with another actor, another Jamie, but she can't imagine it, can't even fathom it. 

 

The idea is oceans away.

 

She wonders if they will write each other long letters while they are away on other sets, in separate continents, separated by Time and Space and connected by the thread that seems to exist only between them. A thin, golden spool. She can almost see it in the air, a rope of blood, of toil, of every time they have spoken, or held each other, or talked until dawn cracked the sky open.

 

He's watching her, as if he knows exactly what she's thinking, and so she stands quickly, holding out her hand. "Let's dance, Heughan. Ring in this New Year proper."

 

"Is that Taylor Swift?" he asks, following her to the tiny, crowded floor that's squatting cheek-by-jowl next to the packed bar and beer-stained stage. He worries her fingers with his own, fusses with them as is his habit, and finally raises them so that her arms curl around his shoulders. 

 

"Where?" 

 

"Don't break your neck, lass," Sam says, amused. "I meant is that her _playing_?"

 

"Oh," she says, blushing at her own eagerness. "Yes. Remember? The owner's granddaughter's visiting. She's a... ah, Swifty."

 

"Like you, it seems." He pauses, considering. "Think I was balls-deep in a Guinness when that story was told."

 

She leans her cheek against his briefly. "Charming, darling. As ever."

 

His hand touches her lower back, the velvet of her dress. His breath is hot against her ear. "It's all for you."

 

Cait trembles, and they dance, swaying slightly to the music. It's melancholy and sweet, all piano and rasp and hope and regret.

_Don't read the last page_  
_But I stay when it's hard or it’s wrong or you’re making mistakes  
_ _I want your midnights  
_ _But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year’s Day_

Over his shoulder, there is a wide window, and snow curtains the glass, casting wide, lacy shadows over the night. It makes the pub - and him, seem even closer, more present - and yet, as if they're receding too, marooning her into a moonless landscape. Adrift in the stars, with Sam as her anchor. Dimly, she can hear everyone around them counting down. Taylor sings, _hold onto the memories, they will hold onto you,_ begging him or her or anyone to never become a stranger whose laugh she could recognize anywhere,and Cait's eyes sting, her throat stings, and she tastes salt, tastes her own wishes for more, more, please just a little bit more.

 

His body is so warm against hers, warm from the fire and the drink, from the night spent with the people they've known for over a decade (God, has it been that long?) warm with holding onto the memories, warm from the memories holding on to him.

 

And the music drifts around them, like that golden, unspooling, shimmering cord, connecting them, communing them, binding their hearts, their throbbing, foolish, unwavering hearts. 

 

_You and me forevermore._

"Happy New Year, babe," he murmurs.

 

She looks up, smiles tremulously. "Happy New Year."

 

"Just a few more months, and then..."

 

"What, no kiss?"

 

"We've done that to death, don't you think?" he teases gently, and then bends his head, his mouth so familiar and yet so welcome that she gasps a little, before opening her own. He smiles against her lips, nuzzling her briefly. "My apologies, Mrs. Heughan. I forgot my duties there for a moment."

 

"You did," she says gravely, and nips his bottom lip. "And you'll be punished upstairs."

 

"Shall we go, then?"

 

"Yes, I'm about done with this," Cait says, leaning her head against his shoulder. "That room's so cozy. And the bath..."

 

"Aye, let's go," he says with so much enthusiasm that she can't help but laugh. It's the kind of laugh that only a wife can get away with. 

 

He clasps her hand in his and raises her ring to kiss it. It's something he does often, and often unconsciously. It never fails to make her tummy flip. She had fought it for so long, but giving in to what is between them has been the single greatest freedom she's ever called her own. Looking up at him, she thinks that perhaps they don't need letters, or their characters, the pomp, pageantry, and the linking of their names on magazine covers, during interviews, onscreen. They have memories, yes, and a history they've built brick by brick, but they also have something much simpler, much truer, that runs between them, as jewel-bright as a river arrowing across earth. 

 

They are essential to each other.

 

They are the end of each other's treasure map.

 

And the beginning too. 

 

He keeps holding her hand as they make for the set of stairs at the back of the pub. The room falls behind them, the crowds and the noisemakers and the dawning of another year, another fresh page in the book. And they go, onward, onward, 

 

forevermore. 

 

 

_Finis_  

 

 


End file.
